Well, This is How It Goes
by CawCawAssbutt
Summary: Eren sees people's memories when he touches their skin. Dead or alive, he can see them. Fond or Scarring, he can observe them with a single touch. Maybe it's a blessing? His parents used to say. Eren doesn't think so.
1. Chapter 1: How It Starts

A/N: I do not own Attack On Titan! All of it belongs to Hajime Isayama! Some of the characters' names were not given out in the anime or manga, so I made them up. So keep that in mind when reading this!

Also, this is on Ao3, I just have a different user on there. I have more uploaded on there than on here, but I'm currently working on getting all the available chapters on here.

Warnings: Blood, Angst, minor character death.

This is going to start off pretty angsty, and it's a slow burn, but please stick with it! It'll get more humorous later on.

Thank you!

* * *

When it first happens, Eren is playing in the garden, slingshot in hand. He's only four.

His favorite game, shooting the weeds that sprout up on the small plot of soil his family owns, keeps him busy while his mother makes lunch inside.

The broiling sun beats down on his small back as he takes another pebble into the pocket of the sling. He fires it, missing the larger weed towards the front of the garden, and instead hits one of his father's healing herbs.

Eren cringes, his small feet carry him over to the crime scene, trying to straighten the plant with tiny, underdeveloped fingers.

He can feel tears coming to his eyes, understanding only that his father will be angry, when he returns from the trip his mother has told him the man is on. One of the plant's leaves are limp on his fingers, bruised with the force of the pebble. Hopelessly, he tries to right it, bring it back to it's original place before the incident happened, but nothing is working. Eren starts to sniffle, tears leaking down his cheeks.

Then, small feet, smaller than his, step in front of him. Two skinny legs bend down, bringing into Eren's sight a blond bowl of hair, bright balls of the morning sky peering into his own emerald orbs.

The boy tilts his head to the side, staring.

Eren's lip wobbles pitifully.

"What's your name?" A high voice asks, childlike and immature like Eren's own.

Eren wipes a dirty fist across his cheek, scrubbing away the wetness that still lingers.

"'S Eren," He says, and then, like his mother taught him to, "Yours?"

"Armin!" The blond raises his hands in the air, towards the sky matching his eyes, and smiles brightly. His laugh echoes as a little tinkle in the air between them, happy and gleeful. Eren thinks he looks like the sun.

Armin brings his hands down then, pointing at Eren and tilting his head curiously again, like only a minute ago. He blinks, small finger steady and directly in front of Eren's cheek, almost touching his face.

"Why're you crying?" Eren scowls childishly, hiding one hand behind his back while the other scrubs more hurriedly at his face than before. He's still crying, that much is obvious, and it makes him mad that this strange, sun boy gets to see him like this. Only his mother and father get to see him cry, because he's a big boy who doesn't let people he doesn't know talk to him, let alone see him sad.

Besides, he hasn't cried in a whole week, not since he fell and got a splinter in his knee after falling on the floorboards. Eren is very proud of this accomplishment.

"'M not crying!" But Armin keeps looking at him, smiling slightly, kindly, like he really is the sun.

Eren reaches up to wipe at his eyes more, and a tiny hand suddenly catches his own.

 _A picture, blurry, and slightly gray around the edges, appears in his head. A giant, round cloth, filled with air and attached to a large basket, lands on his eye like a stray piece of dust. Two people, one with hair similar to Armin's and another darker head, get into the basket. The blond one, a young woman like his own mother, is struggling to maintain her grip as the basket rises from the ground. Around them, angry shouts can be heard, distant but still blatantly clear, and Eren knows that this thought, this memory, it isn't his._

 _It's Armin's._

 _It's Armin's as the the shouting gets louder._

 _Armin's as the man in the basket grips the young woman's wrists, trying to pull her up._

 _Armin's as the gunshots go off in cacophony around him._

 _And totally, inexplicably, without a doubt, Armin's, as the young woman screams "Armin, baby, don't look!"_

With a wet gasp, Eren pulls his hand away, breaking the skin on skin contact.

In front of him, Armin is frowning slightly, brow creased in that way his mother's does when she is worried about him. Those sky flying eyes peer at him, the boy with the dirt streaked cheeks, whose eyes can still see the blood and whose ears can still hear the screams.

The blond tries to move closer to Eren, obviously wary, and once again reaches a hand out to touch. "Grandfather says that you shouldn't rub your eyes with d-"

"Stop!"

Shocked, Armin does, eyes wide.

"I don't want to see that again! I _don't_!"

"Wh-"

"No! It's scary, so I don't want to! Why did you show me that?!"

"Now, Eren can hear his mother behind him, footsteps light and rushed in the worried gait of a caretaker. Armin looks terrified in front of him, but still crouches where he was, while Eren backs away from him.

"Eren, sweetie, what is it?" His mother, voice calm, gentle.

Eren swallows, sucking snot into his throat and reaching for the embrace that he seeks.

Then, quietly, "Why did they die? Why did you show me that, Armin?"

Silence.

"Why did your parents die like that?"

* * *

Comments and criticism welcomed! I take them all to heart!


	2. Chapter 2: Shiganshina Detective: Eren Y

Eren is seven when a murder takes place around the corner from his home.

He remembers it vividly, every second of it.

The woman that raps on their door at dawn is a surprise to all three members of the Yeager household.

Bright and early, the reds and yellows of the sunrise had barely started to shine down on Shiganshina. Eren was still asleep, of course, he remembers that. The tiny bed he slept in was comfortable enough that he could curl up in soft handmade quilts and forget about the world, eyes tightly shut against the cruelties of reality that he had yet to be subjected to. He was dreaming about the sun, enveloping him in its warmth, and hugging him close to its radiance. The warm, soothing heat had only just becoming scalding when he was awoken.

His mother is up and about, still in her flimsy nightdress, as the obnoxious racket lays a siege on the house. Her bare feet make no sound as she treads over to him, crouching down beside him and trying to cover his ears. It's no use, Eren is already awake and alert, slowly sitting up against the push of his mother's gentle hands. His eyes are crusty as he tries to clear them, and looks around, observing his father already at the door.

Grisha is whispering something to the person on the other side. First, his words are clearly harsh, reprimanding, like they would be when Eren is snotty or disrespectful to his parents. Eren tilts his head as Armin does when he's curious, straining to hear better. Then, something changes, and his father's back tenses as tight as a wire, closing the door a little more, trying to speak in even more of a hushed tone than before.

Carla is still beside him, trying to sooth Eren back into sleep.

Its definitely not working. Eren is hooked into the scene laid out before him.

As suddenly as it had happened, it's over. Grisha is still rushing over to the rack where he keeps his coat though, clearly distressed, if his facial features are anything to go by. The lines around his eyes are tight with anxiety and stress, making him seem older, less like Eren's father and more like the sophisticated doctor his job requires him to be. Even Carla has noticed it, worriedly following her husband with her own eyes, frowning deeply.

At last, she rises from her crouch.

The conversation that follows is too low to be heard by Eren, but he can tell that it's something that only adults are allowed to know about. They're arguing. About what, only they know, their backs turned and their shoulders hunched forward.

Then, Grisha is turning sharply, the soles of his boots tapping against the old, wooden floor, and he's flying towards the door. His face is grim as he pulls his hat on, gait wide and fast. Carla is on his heels, continuing to speak in low tones to him, maybe trying to dissuade him from whatever it is he's doing, but it's not working, just as it didn't with Eren before. Her face is becoming more and more puckered as Grisha crosses the floor. Her lips are pressed together so tightly that they turn white, and her hands are quickly curling into fists.

And as Grisha closes the door behind him, Eren's mother slams one of said fists on the wall beside it. The resounding _THUMP_ plays over and over again in Eren's ears as she hides her face and takes deep breaths. His eyes are wide as saucers.

And yeah, Eren, even at the age of seven, already knows which side of the family he gets his anger issues from.

For such things to happen this early in the morning, well, all Eren knew is that today would be fun.

As Carla cools down, arm still covering her features and chest still heaving angrily, her son makes his way to the window. The chair stationed there creaks sullenly as he leans on it, soft woolen quilt covering his shoulders, eyes scanning the empty walkway beside their house. Eren holds his breath, waiting, waiting for something to happen.

He waits for a crescendo to a thrilling climax.

But, it never appears.

The desolate dirt road outside stays barren and abandoned as it usually is this early in the morning. Eren sighs in disappointment, head sagging down onto the windowsill ledge. His lips push out into something vaguely resembling the pout homeless dogs on the street use to barter for food.

When he looks up, Carla is finally calm again, watching her son with an unreadable expression. He doesn't know why, but Eren feels ashamed for having longed for such a thrilling adventure where there clearly wasn't one. He slouches, chin dropping to his chest, avoiding his mother's eyes.

"Eren, sweetie," Carla's soft voice says, consoling and pleading all at the same time. No doubt, she knows what Eren has been thinking, being his mother after all. "Would you like to go back to bed?"

"No." Eren voices his objection stubbornly, eliciting a tired sigh from his mother. The sun is almost fully shining over the walls now, deep blends of red and yellow fading to a Shiganshina norm of bright, humid, heated mornings.

Slowly, with definite hesitance, Carla Yeager distances herself from her son, moving to start the daily morning chores. Her feet are as light as ever, something Eren has come to associate with his mother after growing up in such close proximity to her, as she walks along the floorboards. They creak beneath her feet, giving her away, revealing the aging of both the house and Carla.

They're old, so old.

In the corners of his mind, Eren wonders what his young mother would look like with gray streaks permeating her hair, similar to the older women in the market. He can picture it now. His mother's eyes, so like his own, crinkling around the corners, laughter lines adorning her face, as she searches for suitable meats and vegetables to procure for her hungry family.

The thought makes Eren distraught, sad that his mother won't always be there for him. That someday she will be gone, much more into the future, and he will be an adult already. An adult with a wife, like Carla hopes, and some kids of his own to feed. And, Eren realizes belatedly, that hurts.

It hurts deep in his chest when he thinks of losing his mother.

It causes a tinge of pain at the thought that he might not have a family to present to his parents, to his mother. If those dark green cloaks riding through town every spring are anything to go by, and the way his heart picks up with excitement every time he lays an eye on them. His dream, his new favorite thing, is to imagine himself on one of those majestic stallions, wearing those wings of freedom, and riding through town for all to admire.

It's a lot for someone to his age to be thinking about, only seven and dreaming of joining the Survey Corps. Only seven, and thinking of the time when he won't be with his mother for once. When he won't have those loving arms to run into whenever he scrapes his knee or cuts his finger on a sharp object.

Abruptly, Eren shakes himself out of his thoughts.

 _This is no time to be thinking about such depressing things when there could be an adventure out there, just around the corner!_

With this thought, Eren extracts himself from the windowsill, bright red indention on his chin, and races towards the small drawers where he keeps his clothes.

The day has only just begun.

Armin is bleary eyed and confused when Eren shows up on his doorstep, clumsily dressed and radiating excitement. Eren's feet are shifting in the way that they do when he finds something interesting, when he's gearing up to get moving towards whatever the entertainment for the day is.

Eren tells him to get dressed, tells him to forget his book about oceans, because he thinks that whatever it is he's found is going to be even more fun. _We won't have time to look at it, Armin! Just get dressed already!_

And, okay, usually the stuff that his best friend finds, however random, is a whole lot of fun. Even though Armin loves his book, he loves Eren too, loves the way he's always seeking adventure in a town where nothing happens. It's a desolate, boring world out there, in poor, outer Shiganshina, where they're regarded by the inner walls as peasants, useless except for the little food production they have. It might be the best possible thing to happen to him, finding Eren, otherwise he might have rotted away into the ground underneath.

So, with little reluctance or doubt, Armin gets dressed. He tells his grandfather that he's going out before he leaves, and, well, then they're off. Off to whatever pending adventure Eren has constructed.

The first thing Eren tells him, as they stroll down the empty streets and converse in hushed tones, is of his father's strange behavior this morning. The elder Yeager is always off on some job, as there is always someone who needs him, being a doctor and all. But this morning something was off with Eren's father, body language betraying that something big had happened.

Eren tells him that they need to find wherever his father has gone, search for the house he might be residing in for the day.

Eren is very good at finding things.

He found Armin's book when he lost it in the market, almost a year ago.

He found his mother's wedding band hidden under the cot that his parents shared, his father's stethoscope when he accidentally misplaced it at a patient's house.

Eren was _very good_ at finding things.

Whether it had to do with his "gift", Armin had some suspicions.

Eren usually avoided touching people, just as he was doing now, and Armin can fairly say that he can't blame him. That time when they had first met, three years ago, had terrified both him and Eren. It had shocked his parents, kept Eren an emotional mess for a week afterwards, until Armin had finally approached him again.

Apparently, neither Eren nor his parents had known, because Eren was so used to touching them that he assumed the flashbacks were normal. He wasn't bothered by knowing their whole pasts. Now, he doesn't touch Armin or his parents very often. Evidently, he seems disturbed at reaching into someone's past just like that, just by touching them.

Though, maybe there are times when Eren only touches them to help. He could always subtly touch them in a place where they wouldn't notice. Just a small brush of hands against each other while they're out, searching for whatever it is that they could have lost.

But now, Armin has no idea how they are going to find this house Eren wants. Has no idea how they're going to find Grisha Yeager. Nobody is even out of their house yet, probably still getting ready for the day, so there's no one in streets that Eren could touch and get information from.

The sun is fully out now, shining down on them, slowly burning his pale skin. Surely, he'll be a little more red at the end of the day.

Eventually, Eren stops them, drags Armin by the sleeve towards a hidden cove, drenched in shadows and spider webs. What is happening, Armin can't tell, but the look on Eren's face means that someone is passing by. It could just be the day's first shopper, heading to the marketplace to barter for a decently priced breakfast. Which would be nothing to worry about, if it was.

But clearly, it isn't.

Eren is totally still, body barely moving, still hanging onto Armin's sleeve. Armin is careful not to touch the hand that grips it.

The other boy's face is set into a scowl, eyes scanning, following whoever it is that has deemed to come strolling down the streets. If he strains his hearing, Armin can hear some quiet mumbling, presumably from the stranger, as Eren's lips aren't moving, and none of it sounds like it's in a light tone. It's obviously someone who is irritated, worried, or stressed out. One of those, or all three.

All that can be heard after awhile, once the mumbling stops, is the sound of their breathing, apprehensive in the tight space they've pressed into. Eren is still scanning, emerald orbs glinting when they catch a stray ray of sunlight. It's intense, watching him do this, because Armin can never tell what he's going to do next. He's unpredictable.

Finally, after what seems like forever, Eren moves, taking Armin with him. They dash out into the light, out of the musty hiding space, and sprint down the street before taking a sharp turn around the right-hand corner. Surprised, Armin lets himself be dragged along, the sun's rays blinding him before his eyes can adjust.

"I think I know where he's going!" Eren says, over the quick pace that he's set. His face is determined, eyes focused ahead on a particular spot, Armin doesn't know where, and its exhilarating.

The air on his face.

The sun in his eyes.

Eren's heavy breathing ahead of him.

All of it is exhilarating.

Before he knows it, Eren is pulling up short. His feet skid on the ground as he tries to slow himself, and Armin almost face plants before his friend saves him.

As Armin steadies himself, he comes to a realization. The house they have stopped in front of is one he recognizes. It belongs to one of the older boys in town, and his family.

 _Fred_ , Armin reminds himself, _Fred Din is his name._

Fred was one of his bullies. Whenever he was picked on, Fred was there, laughing and jeering along with the others, before Eren had the chance to save him. Like he always did.

But why were they here now?

Confused, Armin glances to Eren at his side.

Eren is staring at the house like he would a freshly picked sweet bun. Tempting. Delicious. Desiring to be eaten and picked away at. It's an expression that one might have when they desire to taste all of the sweetness the sweet bun might give, getting their fingers messy in the process, like it's worth it.

Armin doesn't like it.

Yet.

 _Who was he kidding?_

He totally _does._

Eren finds the best adventures when he wears that expression. Every single time. Armin has no doubts that today would be any different.

With a burst of excitement in his chest, Armin takes his sleeve from Eren's grasp. The other boy is already moving towards the front door, facial expression no different than before. All the blond can do is follow him.

When Eren gets to the handle, though, he pauses. The brunet seems to be realizing a bit of hesitance in his actions.

Armin can hear someone talking inside. He wonders if the man Eren saw on the street is already in there, conversing with Grisha. They might have bypassed him though, taken a different route, because they didn't see anyone on their running spree. It's possible Eren could have heard the man's mumblings, since he had no way to touch him in their hiding spot.

Eren twists the handle.

It's unlocked.

He lets it open on its own with only a small push, the door creaking loudly as it reveals the inside.

 _Blood._

 _Blood everywhere._

 _On the walls. On the windows. On the furniture._

 _On the dead body._

Armin screams.

Screams so loud that all heads in the room turn to look at him, at Eren.

But Eren. Eren doesn't move. _Doesn't even flinch._

He just stands there, staring. Staring at the mangled body in the middle of the blood soaked floor.

Armin is crying now. Hands coming up to cover his face, shielding his eyes from the horrid sight in front of him. It stains his eyelids, paints his mind as he pictures it, can't get it out of his head.

Grisha moves first.

He takes two long strides before he grabs Eren's hand, and picks Armin up by his small waist. He takes them to the side of the house, where Armin balls and screams some more, attracting the neighbors' attentions. Someone closes the door to the house behind them.

Eren is still frozen in place, forest green eyes glazed over with who knows what. His expression is unreadable by this point.

Grisha consoles Armin, taking him into his arms and soothing hands down his back. The gestures are uncomfortable, as Grisha is not the best at comforting victims of traumatic experiences. He goes through them every day, after all. But he still tries, mumbling reassurances while his son stands before him, unmoving, so still his father worries he might be brain dead.

 _Carla is going to kill him._

Before long, Armin relaxes, clutches Grisha's coat in his small hands like a vice, and rests his head against the eldest Yeager's shoulder.

He's mumbling something.

"Take it back," the small voice whispers, scared and traumatized. "Make it go away."

 _Oh yes,_ Grisha thinks, _Carla is definitely going to kill him._

He pulls Armin closer to his chest. He doesn't risk touching his son.

Eren has probably already seen, anyway. He touched his father's hand when he was dragged out of the house.

He can't tell if his son really is traumatized like Armin, if he's only showing it in a different way. It's definitely not healthy though. None of it is. For a child his age to even see something like what is in that house is a big no no.

What Grisha doesn't expect though, after a few moments of tense, crouching silence, is Eren's mumble of, "I can help."

"What? What are you talking about?" Grisha snaps. Probably not the best way to handle a victim who might be in shock. Oh well.

"I can help find who did it."

This statement causes confusion in his father, as his expression betrays incredulity. There would be no way for Eren to help in this situation. It was out of his childish hands. Out of the question.

Then, a realization.

 _If Eren can see a living person's past by touching their bare skin, can he see a dead person's, too?_

No, he shouldn't. He really shouldn't do it. This child has seen enough to last a lifetime, already.

He should just leave the forming hypothesis alone.

 _Carla is going to kill him anyway. She'll just do it by chopping up all his limbs._

He's going to do it.

Totally.

With a sigh of feigned resignation, because he really is interested in what his son can do, he sets Armin down on the ground. Tells him to wait there, that he will be back in a moment.

Then, he takes Eren's hand in his own once again, showing him more of what he's already seen, and leads him back towards the door.

For lack of better words, the people already inside are surprised when they see Eren. They eye both Grisha and his son warily because _what is a child doing here?_

Good question.

Now, he brings his son forward, guiding him with a work hardened hand on his back. The body is the same as it was before. Still mangled. Still oozing blood everywhere. The eyes are still open in shock at what was surely a gruesome death.

Its Fred's father, no doubt. The features are still intact.

Eren takes all of it in calmly. Like he sees this kind of thing regularly, on a daily basis. His movements are relaxed, though they steadily get more stiff the closer he gets to the body. Emerald jewels soak in all the details.

"Eren."

His son doesn't stop walking.

"Are you sure about this?" _Please be sure about this,_ his intellectual mind says. _Please let me take you away from this place,_ his fatherly instincts say.

He ignores the latter.

Eren stops before the body, feet splashing slightly in a puddle of blood near the head. His eyes are downcast, staring like he was when he first opened that door.

" _Yes._ " It comes out as a hiss, makes shivers go down Grisha's spine. The others are staring, too. Staring at his son, watching Eren like a hawk. The child is oblivious though.

There's something about the way Eren bends down to loom over the fearful face of the victim that makes Grisha's toes curl in apprehension. His curiosity is peaked, to say the least. Carla is definitely going to kill him after this, but it could be worth it. Eren's body language, at just seven years old, gives off an immense amount of confidence, fear, of _anger._

Eren places his thumb on a clean spot on the face. Grisha gets ready for something, anything. A gasp of pain, maybe, or a shocked reaction.

Nothing.

The green eyed boy just takes his thumb away after a moment, stands, and walks to the door. His steps aren't even hurried, only casual. As if he might just be taking a stroll through the market.

Then, he stops. Turns. Looks his father in the eyes.

"It was Mrs. Din."

Silence.

Then…

The room rises into chaos, Grisha and his son in the middle of it, calm and clear sighted. They are the eye of the storm, and all Grisha can do is stare at Eren, slightly smiling.

 _How interesting._


	3. Chapter 3: First Murder, First Sister? 1

To be honest, Mikasa Ackerman's childhood was as carefree as it could get. The work, well the work was never too hard in that it got strenuous, and not once has she had to give herself a poor excuse of entertainment because she had nothing to do. The work was good, that's all there was to it. Good for her, and good for her small family.

They profited from this work, provided herbs to the scarce residents on the mountainside, as well as to the small town at the base of the mountain. True, they definitely were not rich, there's only so much hunting and gathering can do for you in terms of money. But for her family, it was enough to sustain them and keep food in their stomachs at the end of the day.

Her mother, a soft spoken woman and last of her tribe, dealt with the few customers they got, elegantly and with a grace that Mikasa envied. Usaka Ackerman, gentle and delicate, whose eyes shone like mercury in the sun's rays, was, in fact, a beautiful woman. Men and women alike appraised her with their eyes as they went into town, children stopped playing their games to stare with wide eyes at her gorgeous mother as she strolled past. Mikasa had asked her mother once, if she noticed that they stared, if she cared that sometimes men looked at her with greed in their eyes.

Usaka had simply smiled, reached out a hand to stroke her daughter's ebony locks.

 _They do indeed stare, every time we go to market,_ She had said, _But their stares don't matter to me. There is only one that does._

From his seat to her mother's right, Colin Ackerman had smiled slyly, eyes crinkling fondly as he looked at Usaka.

They stared at each other for quite a while, Mikasa looking back and forth between them with wide eyes. Such love in their stares, even Mikasa, seven years old at the time, could come to appreciate the bond they shared. Never had she ever seen them fight before, not even once. They always seemed to have an understanding of each other's feelings.

The flowers and herbs that were grown in their small garden were usually tended to by Usaka, with Mikasa helping out once in a while. Her mother had always said that she had a natural green thumb, and that whenever she was around, the plants seemed to blossom in her presence. Colin often joked with her and said that before she was born, none of the plants ever grew correctly, either being too small or inedible in general. Such jokes never failed to make the youngest Ackerman blush. Her father was a natural comedian.

Still, Mikasa had come to appreciate her childhood environment. Her favorite activity was chasing the butterflies through the clearings located around their property. Such small, beauteous things the insects were, flying all around her. They captured her attentions whenever they were around, made her parents smile, and she would do whatever it took to keep those smiles on their faces.

Yes, Mikasa had a good childhood.

Then there was the day her uncle showed up on their doorstep.

She remembers it, because she had never met another relative of hers before.

Her parents, even though they weren't related and couldn't trace their history back to a single common ancestor, had the same last names. No, not because they were married. Because those were their birth names. This had been explained to Mikasa before, and she knew what she talked about. Her mother had the same maiden name as her father, simply because that was how it turned out. It was only a coincidence.

As for her relatives though, she knew most of her mother's family was either missing or dead. Her father never talked about his.

The Usaka Ackerman side of the family stemmed back into a race that was now very rare inside the walls. In fact, her mother sometimes practiced their old customs, though only the basic ones, inside their home. They were intricate, beautiful rituals and traditions that Mikasa yearned to learn. To think that she had the same blood as those rare peoples was truly mystifying.

It was a shame that they had mostly died out already.

When her mother was child, human traffickers had come into her village, killed the men in gruesome, cruel ways. They had taken the women and children to be sold on the market as slaves, or as mistresses to nobles. Usaka was very young then, she barely even remembers some things, but she does recall the memory of watching her older brother being clubbed to death for resisting his assaulter.

 _He was fifteen then, almost of legal marrying age, and adored by all the girls in the village_ , she had said, manner solemn and grieving. _I watched the club come down onto his head like time had slowed. Before the final blow, we made eye contact, and he screamed. I had never heard my brother scream._

After that, her mother had escaped, and somehow found a new family to live with in the span of a year. They died when she was a teenager, but after she had found her husband. They were already married when the news of their deaths had reached the couple.

In spite of her terrifying past, that should have crippled her mother far beyond repair, Usaka Ackerman is strong. She no longer grieves over the past, for there is no way of changing it. Her husband gives her even more strength, supporting her, carrying her burdens on his own shoulders, and she his.

Whenever she had asked her father of his own past, his own family, he had looked at her with hardened eyes, gazed at her solemnly. His own eyes resembled hers, pure gray, but duller than her mother's. Mikasa couldn't tell at the time, but they held a great weight behind them, told of a different sort of past than what he was living now.

She only understood the looks her father had given her when she was older. When she shared that hardened stare, and gazed at her new family with those dull gray eyes.

But now, as she looks over the man on their front doorstep, Mikasa notices that his eyes are positively alight. Almost feral-like. The being standing before their threshold is a monster. It's all in his eyes.

"Colly-boy! Nice to see ya!" With two great strides, he's inside the house, this monster, this stranger with the burning eyes. He pats her father's shoulder like he's a long time companion, faces the stone hard glare Colin gives the man with a calm resolve. Those eyes drift, land first on Usaka, lips tilting into a smug smile before making their way over to Mikasa and staying there. "Nice family you got here!"

"Kenny." Her father's voice is cold, colder than his daughter has ever heard it before.

The man continues to stare at Mikasa, eyebrows raising when her expression darkens.

She recognizes trouble when she sees it, even though its uncommon around her. Its there in the occasional brown bear that appears on the property, in the smoldering looks men give her mother, give her sometimes, too. Its sick, disgusting, and that's exactly what this man before her is. Trouble. An irritating rash on her family's skin. Her father's voice only confirms it.

"You know, your girl sure is beautiful. What's your name, kid?" He says, ignoring the warning that Colin is giving, the tense stance of her mother as she stands from her seat. Kenny, as her father had called him, plops down onto the hand made table top, wood creaking beneath his weight. Mikasa continues to stare at him, and he her, gazes sharp and unyielding. "Hmm, not too talkative, huh? Reminds me of someone I knew, when he was younger."

Kenny shoots Colin a sly glance, and Mikasa swears she can hear her father's blood boiling.

"Get out, Kenny." Usaka is poised behind her daughter now, protective hand resting on her slim shoulder.

The unspoken threat fails to intimidate him, clearly only making him amused. He voices this by forcing out a hearty laugh, head thrown back and shoulders shaking.

"I see you haven't changed, Usaka!" He pauses, shooting Mikasa another glance before looking away entirely. "But that's not the reason I'm here."

"I don't care, Kenny. Get out of our home." Colin steps forward, putting a forceful hand upon the man's shoulder, trying to pull him towards the door. Kenny doesn't even waver.

"You know, you might. If you heard that it was about our sister."

Colin pauses, expression changing into one of surprise for a brief moment. Then back to aggravated.

"What about Kuchel?"

"Well," Kenny removes his brother's hand from his shoulder with an expression of distaste. "She's dead."

Mikasa's father sputters, face paling, hand falling away completely. Behind her, her mother gasps, surprised and wet.

Colin's expression is one of pure shock, surprised and completely grief ridden. His body is almost limp, and he reaches a hand out to catch him himself on the table before he falls to the ground. "What?"

"Kuchel…is dead?" Usaka says, voice small.

Kenny's eyes seem to have softened, if only a small amount. "Yeah."

"When?" Colin gets out, clearly struggling to contain himself.

Kenny sighs. He runs a hand through his hair, which is overgrown and long, slicked back, down to his shoulders.

"When did she die, Ken?" Colin uses the nickname almost casually, like he wasn't just about to force this man out of his home. Mikasa stills looks at him distrustfully, still wary of the man who is supposedly her uncle.

"Twenty-three years ago."

Silence pierces the room.

Before anybody can react, Colin is in front of Kenny, pristine shirt fisted in his hands. His eyes are unlike Mikasa has ever seen them, intense, full of anger and resentment.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It means she died a long time ago, Colly!" Kenny shouts into his brother's face, expression betraying his own anger for the first time since his arrival.

"Why didn't you come earlier?! Why didn't you tell me as soon as possible?! You know how valuable she was to me!"

"Because I knew you wouldn't welcome me into your home, you fool! You think I didn't know how much you loved her? I'd have to be fucking stupid if I didn't! We all loved her!" Kenny is shoving his brother away now, pushing him back, and Colin is doing just the same. Mikasa's mother grips her shoulder more tightly, bending down to wrap her other arm around her, comforting.

"This is why I left the family business! This! Too many secrets!" Colin shouts, voice filling the room, and it seems to Mikasa that he is a different man than she knows.

"Well, you should be happy to know that she left behind a son, then." It comes out as an angry hiss, filled with contempt and rage. But now Mikasa is scared, scared of this man and what might come to happen should this fight turn to blows. She knows her father is older, older than her mother by almost ten years, so he has some experience under his belt. But she doesn't know if he is experienced in fighting like this man seems to be.

Colin stills, hands starting to shake. His face changes, changes into an expression of grief once again.

" _What?"_

"Yep, raised the kid myself once his mom died!"

"And where is he _now_?"

Kenny smirks, shrugs.

"He's a thug. The strongest and most skilled of them, too, if I do say so myself." He says so, smugly. Her father's lip curls.

"You raised Kuchel's only next of kin to be a thug? What were you thinking?"

"Actually, I originally raised him to continue the family business. Didn't tell him he was part of the family, though."

Usaka tenses. "You didn't tell him you were his uncle? You let him think he was alone?"

Kenny laughs, rough and piercing. It sends a spark down Mikasa's spine.

"What's his name?" Mikasa has had enough of this. Her voice shakes, and she may be a child, but she's still allowed to ask questions. That's what being a child is all about, gaining knowledge from the adults around you.

"Mikasa." Usaka tries to console her, stop her from talking. From asking the important questions.

"What's my cousin's name?" _I'm smart_ , Mikasa thinks, _I know the term for that kind of relative._

Kenny looks at her, something unreadable in his eyes. It's different than before, she knows that he'll answer her. The reason? Well.

It's because she's _interesting._

"His name is Levi, kid."

Mikasa nods, a silent thank you.

Kenny smiles back, almost animal like.


	4. Chapter 4: First Murder, First Sister? 2

Thoughts of her cousin, out there and alone, plague Mikasa for weeks. She can't imagine what living in the underground city is like, nor the life of a thug, but she can grasp perfectly the manner of which her parents had sat down after her uncle had left. Their heads in their hands, particularly her father, they had conversed privately while she did the afternoon chores that she had neglected. Clearly, the thought of her cousin being a thug in the underground was a treacherous thing, possibly the worst thing to happen in their family.

To even think she had met another family member was hard to believe.

The news of her cousin led to the eventual questions about her father's life, of course.

It had only started with a simple confirmation. Mikasa was finishing drying the meager dishes they owned, Usaka by her side, when the young girl glanced over shyly. Her mother had smiled, thin lips turning up into a twitch of amusement at her daughter's coyness. Then, "Mommy, is Daddy older than Uncle Kenny?"

Usaka stopped, put down the bowl she was cleaning out with soap, and looked down at Mikasa.

"No, sweetie. Daddy is the youngest of his siblings."

She went back to scrubbing a stray particle of stale bread from the bowl. Mikasa pondered her mother's answer for a moment, blinking up through the sunlight pouring into their home from the window. If she turned her head, she could see her father gutting the geese he caught earlier that day, but that wasn't necessarily a pleasant thing to witness.

So she went back to drying the dishes she was handed.

Three days later, Mikasa is checking the bear traps with her father. Her finger had been caught by one of the sharp metal points, something uncommon to happen to her, and Colin is treating the small wound. His deft fingers, though not as delicate as Usaka's, do a job well done, efficient and quick. Mikasa watches him, plainly staring as to catch his attention.

With a chuckle, he finally looks up at her, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, Mikasa?" He asks, already having anticipated one of her childish questions.

"Why don't you and Uncle Kenny get along?"

Colin tenses, sudden, eyes widening and blinking in surprise. His lips part to say nothing, only moving on their own. He looks like one of the fish from the river flowing down the mountain, Mikasa thinks. Her father is certainly doing a spot on impression of a freshly caught trout she helped catch the previous year.

Her father gulps, mouth finally shutting, eyebrows furrowing into something of a grimace.

"Why would you want to know that, sweetheart?" His voice is hoarse, as if he has gone through a coughing fit. Mikasa's lips push out into a little pout.

"Shouldn't brothers be nice to each other?" She asks, eyes wide and confused.

 _She is only a child. Indulge her,_ Colin reminds himself.

He sighs, taking his daughter's injured hand in his own. He stares down at it, thinking of how to word his response.

"Sometimes," The man starts, after a moment. "Sometimes, brothers and sisters don't get along like they're supposed to, Mikasa. And that's just the way it is. It's like that for me and your uncle."

"Well, I think that all siblings should get along. No matter if they love each other or not." Mikasa states, yanking her hand from Colin and crossing her arms across her chest. She's always been stubborn, though it barely shows. But she _is_ an Ackerman, after all.

It runs in the family.

Sort of.

(Mikasa often wonders if her cousin is as stubborn as she can be sometimes. At this point, she will distract herself enough afterwards that she forgets the thought entirely.)

Back to the present, though.

Colin runs a hand through his hair, looks away, and glances back to his daughter again.

"Sweetheart, I _do_ love Kenny. You're very right. But sometimes we're hard on each other to show we care, too, I guess." The reality, which Colin aims to hide from his daughter for as long as possible, is that he and his brother have drifted. Drifted apart after so many years of Kenny continuing the family business, of Colin finding a new life and family. The news of their sister's death has only widened the hole between them, contrary to the thought that it might have brought them back together.

And he doesn't plan on sewing that hole back together anytime in the future, either.

He _will not_ let Mikasa be sucked into the cruel world of 'kill or be killed'.

He would rather die.

The day Mikasa meets Eren Yeager is the day her life takes a sharp turn in the other direction.

It starts out as any other day, as her nine year old self sits at their handcrafted table and practices sewing. Usaka sits beside her, humming an old tune left behind by her tribe. A lullaby, if Mikasa recognizes the melody correctly. The soft undertones of her mother's voice are soothing to listen to, relaxing on a calmer day of summer.

It's too hot outside to do any yard work, and it gets so cold at night that there's really no time to do anything besides house chores. For this reason, the family takes the day as a breath of fresh air. Metaphorically, of course.

Mikasa is barely adequate in sewing, far behind the likes of her mother. Her stubbornness makes her unable to give up on the activity, though, despite her utter dislike of it. The skill is useful, if she ever wants her own family in the future. All those beautiful dresses and handsome waistcoats linger in her mind, giving her a goal, igniting a small flame within her that simmers quietly within their small cabin. She wonders if her mother ever imagined making beautiful clothes for her daughters when she was child herself, like Mikasa does.

There's a knock at the door, but it doesn't come as a surprise to any of them. Doctor Yeager was meant to arrive soon, anyway, for their yearly check ups. Mikasa thinks he seems like a nice enough man, gentle when it comes to children, but also very blunt. He has never wavered in his honesty whenever she asked him questions about his job, or if he's been hunting before.

There are some images that don't need to linger in her mind as vividly as Doctor Yeager describes them.

She'll stick to handmade dresses and suits, _thank you very much_.

Sometimes, the man will talk about his family. He doesn't do it often. Not often enough that Mikasa really knows their names, or what they're like, that's for sure. But she gets curious as to what kind of father this man would make. Would he be like her own father? Does he spoil his son, since that's what Mikasa has gathered his child is, with knowledge and sweets when he can? Does he love his wife unconditionally? These questions have no way of being answered, and all that she can tell so far, in the years since her infant hood when they first met, is that her parents are fond of him. And that's answer enough.

Mikasa's father goes to answer the door, casual, smiling as he grips the handle. Mikasa looks down before he opens it though, only hears him say, "Doctor Yeager, we've been wait-" He cuts off abruptly, but neither Mikasa or Usaka look up yet.

They hear a shaky gasp from the other side of the room, and a large _THUD_ as something heavy falls to the ground. This catches their attentions, and when the mother and daughter duo raise their heads in unison, the sight in front of them burns into their eyelids.

Mikasa's father, on the ground, head sagging against his chest. A small pool of blood is forming around him.

"Nice to see you, Colly," A man, now coming into the house, says, hand casually holding a small object. Mikasa hears her mother take a deep breath.

He's holding a knife.

Covered in blood.

 _Your father's blood,_ Mikasa's thoughts supply.

The man turns to them, two others snickering behind him. "Hello. Pardon the intrusion." He says it with such a calm demeanor, such relaxed body language, so sure of how he thinks this is going to turn out.

Briefly, the thought of her uncle flashes through her mind, until one of the other men says, "Stay calm, unless you want me to split your skull with this."

Then, before she knows it, her mother is out of her chair, screaming.

 _Screaming._

The woman attacks the larger man, the one with the axe, small pair of sewing scissors in her hand. Somehow, she'd managed to grab them without being noticed.

"Crazy bitch!"

He grabs her wrists, preventing her from moving any further, from achieving her goal of revenge. She keeps _screaming_ , eyes manic, alight with a burning protective nature.

"Mikasa! _Run!"_

Mikasa can't run. She can't move. Her feet are stuck to the wooden paneling beneath her, sheer shock taking over her body. She's managed to stand with her mother's bold actions, but that's as far as she can go.

 _She won't abandon her family._

"Mom…?" A croak of a question.

 _Are you coming with me?_

" _Hurry, Mikasa!_ " Usaka is still screeching, screaming at the man with the axe, screaming at her daughter.

A tiny shake of the head. Her eyes are wider than they've ever been.

 _Where would she even go?_

She turns her body, looks back at Colin. Maybe…?

"But…Dad?"

No, he wouldn't be able to protect them now. The thought makes her eyes water, her throat close up.

She looks back at the struggle happening before her.

Just in time.

With a snarl, the offending attacker loses his patience. "Dammit! Enough already!"

The axe comes down.

Down onto her mother.

It sinks into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, the sound of the sharp tool cutting bone echoing throughout the room. There's blood. _So much blood._ Her mother's hand flies up to the wound, hand dropping the meager weapon that she was wielding.

As Usaka falls, first to her knees, and then to her side, she reaches a hand out towards her daughter. Her eyes, those shining mercury colored jewels, alight with joy only a few moments ago, are pleading as she catches one last look of Mikasa.

Then, she's gone.

Her eyes are open as she lays there, unmoving, blood pooling quickly around her. Those orbs are dull, void of life. Her clothes soak the blood up, turning her beautiful, handmade skirt a dark crimson.

Distantly, Mikasa hears the men arguing. She tunes them out.

"What are you doing?! I told you, only kill the man!"

"But that bitch-"

"Screw your excuses!"

Mikasa's mouth hangs open, eyes unblinking, even as the man with the axe comes towards her. She doesn't move, as she is petrified.

"Take the brat and run!"

The man sighs, footsteps heavy on the wooden floor.

"You'd better behave yourself."

Mikasa has no choice. It's not like she can even respond properly, the effects of trauma taking over her body. All thoughts of her uncle are gone, her cousin not even a glint on the horizon, as she stares down at her parents' dead bodies.

"Otherwise you'll get more of this!"

She doesn't react when he grabs the front of her dress, pulling hard on the fabric as to lift her off her heels.

Mikasa barely even reacts when the hit comes, not a sound escaping her.

She blacks out, the devoid mirrors of her mother's eyes the last thing she sees.

Eren doesn't say anything when his father opens the Ackerman's front door, after receiving no response. The joints creak sullenly, as if expressing his full mood today.

Somehow, his father had gotten the idea into his thick head that Eren needed more friends. _Yes, surely I need more people around to judge me for my odd abilities._ This was the solution. The Ackermans have a daughter, _Mikasa,_ his father had said before they left, right around his age. The unneeded image of her birth, one month before his own, is engrained into his mind, after incidentally touching his father on the way up the mountain.

His hands curl into fists when he witnesses the aftermath of what must have surely been a gruesome attack. He can feel his eyebrow twitching, stomach curling with anger, while Grisha checks the bodies. The woman's shoulder is practically split in half, her back to the door, so he can't see her face, but blood is still oozing from her wound sluggishly. The man, Mikasa's father, has obviously been stabbed, as apparent by the deep blotch that permeates the middle of his brown vest.

"Eren," Grisha turns, after confirming that the bodies are really all they turn out to be. Dead. "Have you seen the girl?"

Eren shakes his head. No, he hasn't, and it bothers him more than the fact that her parents are lying butchered before them. A seed of resolve plants itself in the pit of his stomach, and he moves towards the bodies. His father doesn't stop him.

Bending down, he reaches towards the man's neck, trying not to think about the puddle of blood currently soaking the undersides of his shoes. His hesitation almost makes him pull back, looking at the pale, bloodless skin before him. He doesn't know what he'd do if he accidentally witnessed another memory besides the one of his death. Something irrational, he supposes.

Biting his lip, he touches a finger tip to the point where the man's pulse had once been, and inhales sharply.

The scene plays out before him.

 _Washing dishes,_ _watching his wife and daughter practice their sewing skills, eyes focused on their work. A knock on the door, not too hard, light enough that it doesn't startle the family. Footsteps, as his point of view shifts to it opening, and darkness, as if he already knows who it is, does not even have to look. "Doctor Yeager, we've been wait-" The voice, so joyful and calming before, cuts off in a strangled gasp, barely audible. Three men before the door, one driving a knife into him. Pain bursts throughout his body, from his abdomen, and he falls back, hits the ground hard. His family's faces are shocked, and he hears something, garbling, it mostly is now, but it's probably one of the mens' voices. His wife, her scream, and his daughter's shaky gasp, is the last thing he hears before darkness drowns him in its pool._

Eren pulls back, hands shaking, eyes wide. He didn't get a clear view of who did this, but the fact remains that it wasn't expected in the least. As he looks at the man, Mikasa's father, the one who died and listened to his family's torture, he thinks that there was nothing he could've done. There was nothing left of him if Eren couldn't gain his revenge, find his missing daughter.

The thing is, even when viewing one memory at a time, others tend to bleed through. Another drawback of his "gift", as his parents like to call it. This man, he had a dark past, one that Eren couldn't understand with only the undertones of other memories.

Curious, he raises a hand to run through the father's hair, ginger and soft beneath his fingers. His mind supplies him with the excuse of wanting to sooth the dead, but there's more to it than that. Each brush of his skin against the scalp grace him with other, smaller, less important memories. Even with the feeling of intruding someone else's life, he can't help but not stop.

 _An absent father, never there for his child._

 _A promiscuous mother, sleeping around as she pleases, only stopping when she becomes burdened with child. Memories of a pill being taken, waiting a few days, and then resuming her business._

 _Three scared children, unattended by their only parent, always being yelled at for mistakes that were never made._

 _Escape. Escape from a living hell. Only to delve deeper into another._

 _An older brother, fighting to survive, fingers dipped with human blood._

 _An older sister, fighting to_ _support them, giving up her body for the money that they need for just one more day._

 _A grandfather, taking them in, training them._

 _The family business. Murder. Betrayal. More running. The mountains, rough and jagged beneath bare feet._

 _Then, peace. A woman, beautiful, as the night sky would be, and in the same situation._

 _Starting a family, the joy of a firstborn child, watching her grow into a carbon copy of her mother._

 _His brother, back for a hopeful reuniting, only to be received harshly._

 _The news of the elder sister, dead, child grown and raised by her brother, alone now in the cruel world. Continuing his life as a thug underground._

 _Then, the awful recollection of death, and the sinking darkness behind it._

"Eren?" Grisha, now done examining both bodies, stands beside his son.

Eren looks up at him.

His lips are pursed with what is surely a near reprimand at Eren observing Colin Ackerman's memories without permission. His eyes are cold, staring down at the boy crouching before him, then at his deceased patient and friend.

It never fails to irk Eren how his father doesn't seem to give a damn.

Legs wobbly, he stands from beside Colin, weak with the newly gained memories. Even though he had only sat down less than two minutes ago.

"What did you find?" The words are sharp, with a little bit of exasperation behind them.

"There were…three men. I couldn't get a good look at them."

Grisha sighs, startling Eren, and moves towards the door, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose tiredly. He pauses on the threshold, looks back at his son. His expression is pinched with worry lines and a little bit of grief.

"Check Usaka. And Eren," At this he pauses, eyes narrowing. "Don't linger this time." The unspoken _You don't need to dig up old wounds_ stays between them, and then Grisha is leaving, waving behind him with a call of, "I'm going to alert the military police!"

Eren frowns, eyebrows pulled together, and looks towards the much bloodier of the two victims. The woman's dress has soaked up quite a bit of blood, and a couple small flies have already started to gather around the wound, making Eren wrinkle his nose slightly.

He's seen things like this before, but he never seems to get used to the reality of what rotting corpses are actually like.

This time, as he gathers his courage for another scourge, ignoring his father's orders, of course, he walks around to the front of the body. The eyes are wide open still, glossy and unblinking in the face of death. He ignores the urge to walk away, right now, leave this woman alone. She was clearly terrified, surprised when she died, but she also fought. There are marks around her wrists, hand prints. The bruises are there against her pale skin, even in death, yellowish and ugly on such a beautiful woman.

Bending down, Eren does the same as he did with Colin, reaching a hand out, this time with two fingers. His thumb and forefinger touch her eyelids, and he expects a twitch, anything, like he always does when he has to do this type of thing, but she doesn't move. Slowly, and with a grieving heart, he shuts those eyes, dull gray disappearing behind flesh. It's always immensely hard to close a corpse's eyes once open, but this woman's close easily, molding around the eyeball like she's only sleeping.

He sighs, taking in her memories, closing his own eyes. The life of peace that this woman led the last years of her life was surely enviable to some, and even more heart breaking once the cause of her death is pondered upon. It truly is a tragic end. The absorption started when he made contact, and like always, there is no pull of the soul as there would be when Eren touches a living person. It's gone, passed on, yet Eren has no clue if her soul really is at rest. She could be watching him this very moment, and although he never met the woman, Eren finds that she most likely wouldn't mind him doing this.

When he's done, memories of this woman's whole life sucked into his own soul, he wrenches his hand back. Clenches it tightly.

 _These people didn't deserve to die._

Standing, emerald eyes alight with the raging flames of a forest fire, Eren takes long strides across the room, to where the kitchen utensils most likely would be. _Somewhere. They must have one somewhere._ He thinks, rummaging beneath the sink hastily, angrily. He cuts his pinky across something sharp, but he barely notices, the sting only driving him forward.

 _Aha!_

Large, gleaming, and freshly sharpened, the cutting board knife rests in his palm. Its weight is easy, light, and comfortable enough in his hand that he wraps his fingers around it tightly, lips curled into an expression of revenge, of hate. His hate fire is burning brightly, his nerves alight with the anticipation, the goal of finding this girl.

 _And using whatever methods necessary to save her from a living hell._

 _Screw the Military Police,_ Eren thinks, making his way towards the door in short, determined strides. _Its time somebody was actually saved in time around here._


End file.
